Look After Me, Brother
by SleepingSeeker
Summary: Michelangelo has grown up. It only took the zombie apocalypse and the loss of a brother to give him the strength to do what is necessary. One Shot.


_'A dying man needs to die, as a sleepy man needs to sleep, and there comes a time when it is wrong, as well as useless, to resist.'_ –Steward Alsop

**Look After Me, Brother**

* * *

The wheels wobbled across the cracked concrete, spraying grit. Rattling and jiggling as he popped over the curb, sliding along the edge for a moment before kicking off again into the gravel-strewn street, just outside the storm drain, weaving around pot holes; hands over his head, palms resting on the top of it. Behind him four dogs chased, tongues wagging and feet galloping with untrimmed nails clacking along with the noise of the skateboard.

Mikey glanced behind himself and laughed, a genuine, teasing sound, without malice. He reached into the pocket of the puffed vest he wore, searching until he found a few crumbling dog treats. He sprinkled them out behind him.

"C'mon, you guys can do better than that. Slow pokes!" he called to them and hooked a left turn down a sidestreet.

He jumped off the board and snapped it up and caught it in one hand. He shrugged off the backpack and set it down, crouching to rummage through until he pulled out a weather-worn and multi-creased map. He unfolded it, gazed at it, smoothing it over the top of the pack and then glanced around with squinting eyes. The afternoon sun glared off the corners of the apartment buildings. Windows stared with vacant eyes. Doorways yawned. Several leaves scattered along with an empty foam cup. He cocked his head, listening, tense for a moment before the dogs caught up with him. Laughing, he stood up. The dogs bounded up to him, one of them jumped up to place paws against his chest. He heaved back a step.

"Geronimo, no jumping!" he scolded and fended off the mastiff's massive tongue as the dog ignored his protests. The dog fell back and began sniffing around his feet. He brushed himself off and eyed the pups of various size and shape. He patted a shaggy mix and glanced around again. A multi-colored awning, its torn fabric flapping in the breeze, caught his eye.

"Ah, there we go!"

He hopped on his skateboard once more, having tucked the map back into his pack and skipped off in that direction. He rolled across the street. He put the dogs in charge of watching his skateboard as he picked the lock. The metal cage groaned as he lifted it up, uncovering the front of the shop. The glass pane of the door was already broken, so he just reached inside and twisted the knob of the lock. The entrance door swung open with a creak. He stepped inside and peered around the gloom.

With a determined look, and a half-smile of triumph, he got to work; opening cages, unsnapping latches and emptying boxes of crickets out in front of the building. One of the dogs chased a few and Mikey stopped to tell the dog to leave them be. Parakeets, finches, and love birds circled the shop before finding the exit and filled the air with a fluttering living rainbow before the last of them left his sight. Using a tanto, he split bags and bags of cat food and dog food, spilling kibble everywhere across the linoleum; then moved through the narrow aisle to the back door just beyond an alcove that served as a small office. He froze.

There was a woman at the desk. Her head rested on her folded arm, face turned away so he could not see her expression. For that, he was grateful. It looked as though she had just fallen asleep after working late. Her blonde hair was ashen under the gathering dust. There was a picture of a young woman being hugged from behind by a man. They were both laughing in the candid shot. His eyes dropped. Feeling like an intruder on a private memory. Her feet were bare where she'd taken off her sandals under the desk. He noticed the pink nail polish. His heart pounded. He stared, lost. With one hand, he started to reach out, paused, thought better of it, chastised himself for being stupid and trained his sight on the back door.

"Focus, dummy," he mumbled angrily.

Foregoing any sense of silence or stealth, he lifted his foot and kicked open the back door, hard enough to slam it against the bricks and shatter the small window. He huffed and turned around, without another glance at the woman. Forcing himself to stride past her and not glance again at her. Leaving her in peace. She'd been lucky, he told himself. Lucky. He grabbed a large bag of dog food and slung it over his shoulder, snagging a sack of cat kibble near the front door. It was Klunk's favorite brand.

Outside, he gulped at the air. He glanced at his entourage. They looked up at him with expectant eyes. "What are you waitin' for?" he asked, a hitch in his throat and unable to clear it. He tipped his head back towards the opened entrance to the pet shop, "Dinner's served."

The streets stretched on, quiet and peaceful. Devoid of life. He'd hope to spot any one of his latest rescues, but the sky above was as lifeless as the ground below. Mikey snapped his gum and quietly beat-boxed a tune as he curved and rolled towards their temporary hideout. He dashed into the alley, noting the dying light. He hadn't meant to be gone this long. _Stupid map_, he thought.

He tossed the larger bag of dog food behind the large dumpster just below the fire escape access ladder. A rat scurried out from one dark corner into another. He tucked the cat food more securely under his arm as he reached up with his opposite one and caught the bottom rung with a leap. He lifted himself with a grunt and began to climb. Once he reached the third story, he set the bag down and pried off the wooden boards to the window and slipped inside, reaching back to reattach the planks or at least give the impression that nothing had changed. He shuffled around the stacked furniture, accidentally kicking over a rifle. He gasped and caught the barrel before it could hit the carpet. Then carefully replaced it. He slipped out of the heavy back pack and glanced around.

Splinter was where he'd left him, slumped in the corner of the small room, surrounded by cushions and a glass of water marred by a translucent coating of dust. No longer rocking. Mikey crept up. His eyes darted over his sensei's body. He noticed the steady rise and fall of his father's chest. Relief coursed through him. _Just sleeping_.

To be sure, Mikey swept his fingertips along his father's wrist, pressing gently while searching for a pulse, and blew out a relieved breath before pinching the edge of a torn blanket and dragging it up and over his sensei's shoulders. He gazed at the crumpled form of his father; once so imposing, now reduced to not much more than skin and bones, nearly as tiny as some of the animals he'd been rescuing from the pet stores. Something too close to grief clutched his heart. He ducked his head.

"If it isn't the returning hero," Casey's voice boomed loudly, laced with sarcasm and heavy with alcohol.

Mikey winced then jumped up. "Can it. Splinter's out," he hissed.

Casey leaned one shoulder against the doorframe. He considered his young friend for a moment, looking as though he'd wanted to give another comment on Mikey's daily activities, but instead, he scratched the mouth of the bottle against his temple before tipping it in Splinter's direction. His voice held the familiar slur, "Nothin's gonna wake him. He's been out most of the day. Just like yesterday an' the day before."

Mikey digested this information with an uneasy feeling in his gut. He glanced back at his father. It was true. He'd been doing that more and more. Sleeping the hours away rather than being awake with them. They needed his guidance more than ever, but it seemed as though a part of him had already given up. In a way, Mikey couldn't blame him. After what they'd been through? He'd want to sleep through the zombie apocalypse if he could, too.

Though he knew that it wasn't fear that had his father trying to escape reality. It was a deep enduring sorrow. And a healthy dose of guilt, no doubt.

The memory of Leo's arm, infected and raw, bubbling under the stream of peroxide rose up in Mikey's mind; his reassurances that it was nothing; that he was fine; that it was only a scratch. The way his eyes shone too brightly as he lied to them, hiding the truth day after day, trying to keep everyone calm, planning with Donatello their escape routes through the city; their scavenging plans, setting up defensive tactics with Raphael. The way they all had believed him. Believed in him. Wanted to believe that the strongest of them, the bravest could not be the first to fall. Impossible. Too painfully unfair. That in rescuing their father, cornered in a dead-end alleyway, he could not have possibly doomed himself.

He remembered Donatello's desperation; his fervent attempts to save him until . . . until it was Raphael who took it upon himself to do what no one else could. To give their brother an honorable departure, to save him from what was to happen next to those infected and not dispatched properly. To do what a brother needed to do for his own. To step up and look after one another even at the very last. The final act of love.

And now . . . _Raph_ . . . who would be the one to step up for him?

Mikey shoved the memories and unwanted thoughts away as hard as he could. He balled his fists and suddenly had to fight the urge to punch Casey in the mouth. Though he had suffered as much as any of them. His family, lost. Now, his best friend . . .

Pulling him from the grim thoughts, Casey went on, "He even slept through a little . . ." Casey mimicked firing a rifle into the living room.

Mikey started, mouth gaping. "You guys had a confrontation?" He pushed past his friend and moved quickly down the hall. His face bounced from side to side looking for his brother, for April. "Why didn't you . . ."

April emerged from the kitchen, apron splotched with stains, hands hidden behind a towel. Her face glistened with perspiration and looked haunted as it did most days since the first outbreak hit. When more people were dying from the widespread panic than the disease or those attacking.

"Mikey," she said and grasped him by the shoulders, dropping the towel. "You said you'd be back hours ago."

"I'm sorry, I got turned around."

Casey came up behind him. "Peh. Real nice makin' April worry over your ass over some stupid animals."

He bristled. "If I don't get them out of there, they'll starve. At least they have a chance outside."

Casey shrugged. "You should keep them locked up. Better 'n what's going to get them outside their little pens."

Mikey blanched. He stepped out of April's arms. He knew. He wasn't wrong. Any sick animals he came across, the ones that didn't stand a chance outside . . . he handled mercifully. Each time it felt like something dying within him, but he knew. He wasn't wrong. But he felt bad for causing any further stress. The family had enough as it is.

"I'm sorry, April. I didn't mean to make you worry. There's eighteen cans of beans in my pack and some boxes of band aids and uh, those girl things you were hoping I could find."

Her face brightened while his turned crimson. He rubbed the back of his head and backed up. "Uh, where's Donnie?"

She shot a furtive glance in Casey's direction, then dropped her eyes.

"Where else?" Casey muttered and turned away, the drawn, misery on his face nearly too much for Mikey to deal with.

Mikey's stomach clenched. Without another word, he headed into the inner hallway just outside the apartment to the barricaded stairwell. He glanced down, besides a few new sprays of red on the walls below, there was no other sign of them. He felt a grim sort of satisfaction. Casey, drunk or not, did his job. Any of them getting through downstairs were taken care of, then the bodies disposed of before they could attract any more. He swallowed dryly, counting three new stains. Wondered how long after he left did they get in. He didn't recall hearing any gunshots so it must have been a while after he'd gone. Reluctantly, he turned his attention to the roof access door. With leaden feet, he moved towards it; feeling as though he was leaving his stomach behind.

Twilight painted the rooftops in hues of gray and blue. The streak of red fabric caught Mikey's eye and held his attention, despite wanting to look anywhere but. The cage sat in the center of the roof. His brother lay within. Donatello knelt in front of it, a wide variety of medical tools were spread before him. As Mikey approached, he could hear Donnie's muttering. He sighed and crouched, finally pulling his eyes away from the form laying on its side inside the cage.

"Hey," Mikey said and eyed the vials, the petri dishes, the snips, gleaming instruments and the syringes; the plastic bottles of pills and the flexible tubing all scattered around him like some sort of shrine to medical tools.

Donatello ignored him. Then, as if just realizing he'd been spoken to, looked over his shoulder with a start.

"Mikey!"

Michelangelo gave him a weak smile.

"How goes your rescue operations?" Donnie asked absentmindedly as he tapped a powder into a dish and dripped something over it before sliding it into place under the lens of a microscope.

"Wouldn't this be easier inside?" Mikey asked him, watching as Donnie hunched over the microscope, peering inside. A strained tension in his movements, as he fumbled with the microscope's dials. It had been just over two months since losing Leo, a week after having left the lair to seek shelter away from the city only to become trapped within the quarantine zone after he'd been bitten. A little less than a week since Raph had gotten himself scratched.

"Easier this way." Donatello answered without looking at him. He motioned with one hand, still peering into the lens, at Raphael, "Easier to get the samples I need. Better for Splinter."

Mikey nodded. Tears stung his eyes suddenly and he hated himself for it. A familiar furry head came out of nowhere and rubbed against his elbow. Mikey gathered up Klunk and held him in his lap. There was little to be grateful for these days. Small comforts meant everything. His cat surviving, rescuing a few trapped animals, the fact that his older brother had his shell to him and was asleep or resting - did zombies sleep? - so he didn't have to see his face. This time the tears escaped, wrung from his eyes by the pressure building inside his throat and head. But it was more of a weeping at the rims of his eyes; burning them; giving him no sort of release or comfort.

"Casey said that I should leave them in their cages," Mikey mentioned thickly as he petted Klunk's head. He didn't bother to clear his throat.

Donatello said nothing. He made a few notes then continued doing whatever he was doing with the tissue samples from Raphael. The thin metal tweezers clinked against the glass. The only sound on the roof besides Mikey's voice and the unsteady labored breathing of the brother behind the bars of the iron cage. Was he completely turned yet? Maybe that's why he still slept. He wanted to ask Donatello these things, but had learned that asking his brother incessant questions about the virus and the worsening situation only added to Donatello's manic stress. He was doing everything he could to understand what the entire country could not. And he was trying to find a cure. Mikey's mind veered off to picture Splinter sleeping more and more every day. He felt tired. His eyes drooped before he forced them wide.

"He said that I shouldn't let them go. That they'd be better off . . ."

Unable to finish the thought, Mikey released Klunk and the cat bounded away to explore the edges of the roof. The sky above grew pale gray, darkening orange and crimson further out on the horizon. It was pretty. Reminded him of sherbet. He searched the sky for any sign of a star to wish upon, but none made themselves known. Maybe there were too many wishes being made, now that the world was ending. Maybe all the stars were hiding like the rest of the survivors. Afraid of being caught and consumed.

He glanced at Donnie working in the gathering gloom. His brother's hands were scored by tiny paper cuts and stained by ink and whatever chemicals he'd been mixing. He noted the tremble, the tremor, the held breath as he concentrated and squinted at the mysterious results of whatever futile test he'd just run. Mikey's toe reached out and flicked on a flood light trained on the work space in front of Donnie.

With the added light, Don looked up, once again as though he'd forgotten Mikey was there.

"What else can I do? The thought of them trapped . . . I can't take it, Donnie."

Donatello blinked and settled. The weariness he felt was in evidence by the heavy bags under his eyes, the creases of worry and stress around his mouth and forehead. He couldn't continue this way, searching for an impossibility.

Michelangelo could tell he was finally listening and thinking over what to say to him; being careful. Always careful with his words. He so seldom spoke now. It was as though he were constantly trying to protect them all from the terrible things he knew. Keeping the burden of truth from them all. But there were no secrets to be protected from, there was no more time for innocence. All the monsters under the bed had crawled out into the daylight. There were no more children in the world. Only survivors.

After a stretch of silence, Mikey added, "I can't leave them locked up. They'll starve. And I . . . I take care of any that I don't think are strong enough . . . or too sick."

Donatello nodded, eyes locked on him, looking older, and beaten down, but full of understanding. "As long as you're being careful. And not wandering too far, I think it's a good thing. A merciful thing." He fell quiet and after a beat added, "But your safety is most important, Michelangelo. You have to promise me you'll be careful out there."

He sounded so much like Leonardo then the pain in Mikey's chest blossomed fiercely and without warning. He gasped, pitching forward where he sat. He hiccupped and snatched Donnie's hand, making his brother jump.

"Mikey," he asked, frightened. "What's wrong!?"

"If you can't save him, Raph, I mean . . . then we should! W-We . . . We should . . .!" Mikey cried out. He ground his teeth, trying to force himself to say what he knew they needed to do. Unable to pry the terrible thought from his mind, to tear it free from the back of his throat. He fell forward, scattering the tools. Donatello was suddenly holding onto him. Clutching him in his arms. Shaking with the force of Mikey's choked anguish as he tried to stifle it, but couldn't.

Donnie spoke rapidly into his brother's head, "I will save him, Mikey. I will. I . . . I couldn't help Leo. It was too soon. I didn't know what we were up against, but . . . but I _swear_ . . ." his voice cracked. "I will find something . . . somehow . . ." he trailed off, out of promises to make, out of lies to reassure.

Mikey would have laughed if he wasn't fighting back the screams breaking through the fragile fortifications of his mind and heart. He wanted to shout for Donnie to shut up. To save his breath. He wasn't fooled. He'd stopped being a child when the world erupted into chaos with the impossibility of Leonardo's death becoming reality.

He coughed and sobbed hard into Donatello's shoulder, finally glancing with one glassy eye at the cage and his brother within; awake now; staring out with gold eyes, so familiar and at once not; flat and without expression; already one of the lost. Mikey's face crushed as his coughing turned into a broken staggering whimper.

He didn't need reassurances. He didn't need lies to comfort him. He just needed the chance to do what was right. And as he shook and quaked in Donatello's weakening grip, he knew what he had to do. What he should have done immediately. Knew he had do it tonight.

Casey would leave him in the cage. Donatello was blinded by guilt and driven to search for an impossibility. Splinter had slipped through their fingers before any of them had even realized it. It would be too cruel to place this upon April's shoulders. No. He would never forgive himself if he asked her. She would never agree, believing that Donnie could come up with some miracle cure. But that was just making wishes on stars that refused to shine. He knew. He wasn't wrong.

It was up to him to do what was right. To let Raphael go.

* * *

**A/N:** Heavy, I know. And WTF!? A zombie story without a single zombie in actual sight. A rip off? I hope you don't feel so :)

StealthyStories is hosting a HORROR/HALLOWEEN competition! You don't have to be a writer to participate - AND you may nominate up to 2 of your OWN stories! How about that!? So, head on over to stealthystories and join in the fun! All the details are there and if you have any questions, I'll find out what everything I can for you! Or you could always ask them directly! The Nerdfighter and TheincredibledancingBetty are hosting. :D


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